


How to Anger Parents and Rock the World: The Arya and Jaime Guide to One Night Stands

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Comedy, Dirty Talk, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Night Stands, Wall Sex, charity events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Leave it to Arya to score the most inappropriate conquest at the Stark's Annual Charity Extravaganza.Leave it to Jaime to be so tired of his father's nagging about how his ongoing bachelorhood is ruining the family business that he fucks one of the Stark girls.Leave it to them both to cause the biggest celebrity scandal of the decade...
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Arya Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 231





	How to Anger Parents and Rock the World: The Arya and Jaime Guide to One Night Stands

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure either. 
> 
> Someone in a comment or something did ask if I'd ever considered a Jaime/Arya fic and I'm sorry that I can't track it down or remember who it was! 
> 
> Either way, I hope you all enjoy this! It's just a bit of fun to hopefully improve moods in these very uncertain and upsetting times.
> 
> Remember: stay inside, wash your hands and don't panic! We will see the other side of this.

Gods, she's so godsdamned bored.

  
She knows these events are for good causes, and she actually knows first hand how good a cause this benefit is for especially, but that doesn't mean she likes the fucking things. She much prefers to make her money on the streets, putting in the work, by organising community events, by being behind the scenes. She does mot like schmoozing with rich people until they feel guilty enough or smug enough to cough up. She doesn't approve of false flattery and barbed words - she deals herself in straightforward and often devastating honesty, in sarcasm and blunt truth.

  
But she's also practical enough to know that no matter how excruciating tonight is for her, it'll raise more money in four hours than she'd be able to get in four months of working over the streets, crowdfunding and relentlessly nagging the government. She can put up with a few hours of discomfort in exchange for the amount of money this is going to pour into the children's home she's ambassador for.

  
Although she perhaps could have chosen her own dress.

  
She'd made the mistake of letting Sansa shop for her and her sister had popped up that day with a gown bag and a stylist, chirping on so happily that Arya hadn't had the heart to tell her that there was no way in the seven godsforsaken hells that she'd ever wear such a thing.

  
It's crimson for a start, a colour Arya avoids like the plague because she thinks its too showy. It's got a daringly short front combined with a flowing back and Arya's always hated that style. But Sansa had squealed with delight when Arya had put the dress on and looking in the mirror, Arya had had to admit it wasn't the worst she'd ever looked. And it had had the bonus of making her mother raise an eyebrow and ask 'are you quite sure about that dress, darling, it's a little risque don't you think?' Arya had assumed her mother was referring to the geometric cut outs over waist, stomach and cleavage. It's certainly getting her some attention, that's for damn sure. From the usual one interview, she's had reporters begging to talk to her. She hates reporters with a special kind of virulence, but again, tonight is not about her. She'd do a thousand interviews with pervy reporters who stare exclusively at her tits if it gets the charity some attention.

  
Two hours in though, she can't take it anymore, good for the charity or not. She sneaks out a side door and creeps down a few corridors until she comes out on a balcony overlooking the gardens of whatever old stately home they're using this time. She can never remember their names. She pulls a cigarette and lighter from her clutch bag and lights up, takes a deep, relieving drag.

"Terribly sorry to bother you," a voice breaks in. "But may I trade you a drink for a cigarette?" She swings round to face Jaime Lannister of all people. He's holding two tumblers full of what looks like whiskey to her and she breathes out a long stream of pale smoke.

"Depends on the drink."

"A very fine ten-year old scotch," he answers. "With rather pleasant caramel tones and a very pleasurable burnt finish."

"Pretentious twat," she says. He smirks at her.

"Quite right too," he declares. "One should always be pretentious about good scotch. Do we have a trade, Lady Stark?"

"If you promise to call me Arya, we have a trade, Lannister." She provides him with a cigarette and he hands her a tumbler. "So, how did you know I'd be smoking? Or do you routinely follow girls onto dark, off-limits balconies?"

"Only when they're beautiful," he tells her. She rolls her eyes at him. "I had no idea you would be smoking. I was simply hoping to make conversation with an intelligent woman of some depth."

"Well, you hit the jackpot," she says drily. "Welcome to the tired of this bullshit balcony."

"Not something I imagine you're keen on the press hearing. You disapprove of raising money for orphans?"

"It's my bloody charity," she contradicts. "I care a great deal about tonight. I just dislike the way I'm going about it."

"Too many guilty rich people."

"And you score again, Lannister, congratulations. People should donate because kids going hungry is a fucking disgrace, not to assuage their guilt over spending most of their time and money on frivolous shit." She flicks her cigarette end into the dark garden.

"I'll drink to that," Lannister tells her, raising his glass. She clinks her own against it and takes a bolstering sip. He's not wrong, it is bloody good scotch.

"What are you doing here anyway?" she asks, watching him lean casually on the balustrade.

"Never seen you condescend to attend one of these events."

"My father strongly implied that if I did not attend and represent the family, he would make it his business to see me chained to some dreary office by close of tax season," he answers. "As I cannot imagine anything duller, I dusted off the old tuxedo and called a car."

"Honest," she says. "I like that."

"Good, because I'm afraid I must be honest now too, and tell you that a hefty part of my motivation of following you to this dark balcony was to tell you that you look positively delicious tonight."

"Should I be worried about drinking this?" she asks drily.

"No. You could turn me down, and I will kiss your hand with all due valour and retire, broken-hearted but respectful."

"Fucking hells, Lannister," she says, laughing out loud. "Does that actually work on women?"

"Surprisingly often," he answers, grinning now.

"Yes, your reputation does rather precede you. Well, little tip, if you actually want to fuck me tonight - or any other night - your chances of success are far higher if you drop the flowery bullshit."

"Noted. Would you prefer it if I told you that from the moment I saw you tonight, I've been wanting to rip that dress off you and slam you up against the closest convenient wall?"

"From the moment you saw me? You must be very starved."

"Not at all. I know a beautiful woman when I see one, and I know bite when I see it. I like bite and the Gods know, Arya Stark, you've got plenty of fire in your veins." Arya drains the last of her scotch and smiles at him.

"You have - oh, just over three hours to go, Lannister. Convince me."

"Convince -"

"I'm not one of your family's interns desperate to catch the ear of the heir to the business, Lannister. I am Lady Arya Stark. Convince me why I should descend myself to your level."

  
She steps around him neatly and returns to the ballroom. She mingles, graciously provides soundbites and poses for carefully staged photographs, talks to politicians and society wives and minor celebrities. And every time she turns to go from group to group, he's there, sending her lecherous winks, charming smiles or a drink. They even dance together for the sake of press photographs, and he whispers absolute filth into her ear the entire time. When she takes the stage to make her final speech, there's a tumbler of scotch waiting on the podium, a note beneath it. _Drink for yes_. Cheeky, cheeky fucker.

"Distinguished guests," she begins, deliberately not taking a sip, "thank you for attending tonight. I would like to ask you to join me in a round of applause for the fantastic staff that made tonight flow so wonderfully." Oh, she loves forcing people to do that, the snobby bastards. "Thank you. Your donations tonight will make a tangible difference to the lives of the children that the Nymeria Foundation seeks to help, house and feed. It is a travesty and a disgrace that in a supposedly modern, developed nation, we have children starving on the streets. Regardless of why they are there, it is a disgrace that they are. The Nymeria Foundation has one very clear goal - that never again will a child find themselves with nowhere to go but a cold doorway. The proceeds from tonight will help to open two Nymeria Homes in King's Landing, and one in Oldtown. By this time next year, it's our goal to have at least one Nymeria Home in every city in Westeros. Tonight will not cut it. We are handing out pledge forms for you - and we urge you to fill one out. If every company represented in this room donated a hundred gold dragons a month, we would achieve our goal by Christmas. I want you to think about that tonight, when you go home and look at your children. Look at your children and ask yourself 'would it really impact anyone if my salary was lighter a hundred dragons?' I can guarantee you that the answer is no. Most of you know by now that I do not mince my words, and therefore I have one thing to say to you: your consciences will not be clear if you leave here tonight deciding you need that money more than our children do. Thank you." She picks up the tumbler and takes a slow, deliberate sip as she makes direct eye-contact with Jaime Lannister. She leaves the podium to scattered applause and a muttering that sounds like a swarm of bees. Good.

  
There is a reason she makes her speeches at the end of her events. She wants them going home feeling guilty, not drinking to forget it.

  
She shakes hands with her guests, smirking when half of them won't meet her eyes. This is exactly why she tolerates the press at her events. They are guaranteed to keep a track of who is and is not donating, she won't even need to check the pledge forms.

  
She needs nobody to tell her her footsteps are shadowed when she returns to her dark balcony. She has just enough time to make certain - adjustments to certain components of her outfit before the door behind her opens and closes.

"You really are quite something, Arya Stark," his voice drawls. He steps up behind her and she feels his hands tugging lightly at her hair, pulling away the pins until the complicated style loosens and falls. She shakes her head with a sigh of contentment as her brown hair resumes its normal waves down her neck. "Half of them will be grinding their teeth for weeks, and half of them will be so impressed they'll be desperate to do business with you."

"And where on the scale do you fall?" she asks as his hands slide onto her hips and pull her backwards into his body. She tips her head back to find his shoulder as his hands slide onto her belly and slowly start creeping up.

"I? I fall into the category of those who want to fuck the most intelligent businesswoman in Westeros."

"Then get on with it," she tells him.

  
His hands bypass her breasts to pull the straps of her dress down. He pushes aside her hair to kiss her neck and bite the curve where shoulder meets neck, he pinches her nipples when he finds no bra to block his access.

"How do you want this, my Lady? I could bend you over this balustrade and fuck you until your legs are shaking. Or I could have you up against that wall and bruise your skin with bites until you scream for me."

"The wall," she pants. "But you back up to it first." She turns aprubtly, shoves him into it and kneels, her hands finding his fly and unbuttoning until she can slide her hand inside. He's hard, hot and heavy in her hand and for a moment she explores him lazily.

"Hells, woman -" His voice is cut off when she tightens her grip for a second.

"Shut up, Lannister. I'm in charge right now."

  
She pulls his cock out, strokes him slowly. He's thicker than most but not startling. Oh yes, this is exactly what she wants. She licks a stripe from root to tip and takes him into her mouth, working with her hand what she can't manage to take. She's not choking to death on Jaime Lannister's cock.

  
He grunts and his hands fly to her head as she sucks him, dragging the merest scrape of teeth over him, teasing his frenulum with her tongue. His fingers twist in her hair but he's not trying to force her head down. Nonetheless, she pulls back to glare.

"Choke me and I'll bite you so hard you'll limp for a week," she warns.

"Gods, that should not make me want you more than I already do - yeah, yes, got it," he adds hastily when she squeezes him warningly. She gets back to him. He tastes of warmth, of salt, of something unnamed, the taste of clean skin and cotton and musk. She stands once her jaw gets tired, kisses him. He responds at once, his mouth opening under hers, even as he turns her to press her against the wall.

  
He pushes the front of her dress up, and she sees the moment he realises something very important. His head snaps up and his smile is positively leonine.

"I took them off before you got here," she tells him.

"Naughty girl," he reproves. He slides his hand under her skirt and smirks at her.

"Your fault," she tells him as he strokes her so lightly she can barely feel it. "You were the one whispering filth - fuck." He's opened her up and pushed a finger inside her. She feels herself open for him and groans at it as he starts to cuck her slowly.

"Imagine what that journalist would have said if he'd heard us," he murmurs in her ear. "If he'd heard me telling Lady Stark I couldn't wait to find out how tight her cunt was around my cock."

"You're a depraved old bastard," she hisses back, hitching a leg around his hip to give him better access to upgrade to two fingers. Instead he withdraws his fingers and instead slides a hand between their bodies to fumble, to line himself up - oh fuck, fuck, fuck. He lifts her with a mutual groan of satisfaction as they find the angle that

"Know many old men that can do this?" he snarls at her.

  
They both completely forget that they're outside, in public, on an open balcony. He fucks her as he promised, in hard, sure strokes as he bites at her, fucks her hard as she claws at his jacket trying to get a purchase in slippery, expensive material. She cries out expletives, gasps his name, pulls his hair to hear him swear at her viciously, to feel his teeth get a purchase on her neck and bite her hard.

"Touch yourself," he orders. "I want to feel you come, want to feel your cunt getting tighter as you orgasm on my cock, I want to see what a Lady looks like when she comes on the cock of her father's greatest business rival -"

"You're nowhere near my father's level," she gasps out through gritted teeth. "Don't flatter yourself." For all that, she touches herself, lets go of her hold of one of his shoulders and gets a hand between them to rub her clit. She's close, she's so bloody close - "Bite me," she begs. "Fucking hells, please, please -"

  
He obliges, and she comes with a cry so loud she's fairly sure that any staff left tidying the ballroom will hear her.

"Seven hells, you - fuck!" He comes with a shout of his own and she realises too late that they both skipped a very important step in their pleasure.

  
He steps away from her, breathing heavily, then swears again.

"Indeed," she says, as drily as she can whilst still panting and trying to rearrange her now almost completely ruined dress. "I am on the Pill, but -"

"Yes, but," he agrees. "I'll happily provide you with a er - clean bill of health."

"I'll drink moon tea tomorrow," she answers. "And can provide the same if you wish." She retrieves her knickers from her discarded clutch bag and slides them back on.

"Regardless of my failure to dress for the occasion," he tells her, hands rebuckling his belt as she slides the straps of her dress back into place and attempts to tidy her hair, "please know that you might be the greatest fuck I've ever had."

"I feel greatly honoured," she answers. "You were adequate." He smiles at her.

"You're a cold woman, Arya."

"Thank you. But if you're interested in appealing your grade, I have another event next month. I'm staying at the Red Keep. I'm certain a man of your - talents could find a way to contact me if he perhaps wanted my room number."

  
Six months and six public events later, Arya Stark wakes up in a hotel suite in Braavos to twenty-three missed calls from her parents, her siblings and her furious Press Relations company, and forty-two scorching text messages from her sister, her best friend and her livid spokesman all attaching a blurry tabloid photograph of her kissing Jaime Lannister inside the 24-hour Wedding Chapel in Braavos.

  
Six months and six public events later, Jaime Lannister wakes up in a hotel suite in Braavos to a single voicemail message from his near-hysterical brother Tyrion, who congratulates him on his marriage between bouts of wild laughter.

  
They look at each other and at their left hands, laugh, and carry on celebrating the success of the Nymeria Foundation. The calls will wait - after all, they're on their honeymoon...

  
  



End file.
